pite of her virtues, he joined heartily in the family worship of the
head of the house. "Well, he has had a word with Margaret anyway, and he
ought to thank me for that."

"Dear Margaret," murmured Mrs. Culpeper, "she is looking so sweet
to-night."

That Margaret was looking very sweet indeed, Stephen acknowledged as
soon as he entered the room, where the firelight suffused the Persian
rugs (which had replaced the earlier Brussels carpet woven in a mammoth
floral design), the elaborately carved and twisted rosewood chairs and
sofas, upholstered in ruby-coloured brocade, the few fine old pieces of
Chippendale or Heppelwhite, the massive crystal chandelier, and the
precise copies of Italian paintings in gorgeous Florentine frames. Here
and there hung a family portrait, one of Amanda Culpeper, a famous
English beauty, with a long nose and a short upper lip, not unlike
Victoria's. This painting, which was supposed to be by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, was a source of unfailing consolation to Victoria, though
Stephen preferred the Sully painting of his grandmother, Judith
Randolph, who reminded him in some subtle way of Margaret Blair. In his
childhood he had believed this drawing-room to be the most beautiful
place on earth, and he never entered it now without a feeling of regret
for a shattered illusion.

As he took Margaret's hand her expression of intelligent sympathy went
straight to his heart; and he told himself emphatically that after all
the familiar graces in women were the most lovable. She was a small
fragile girl, with a lovely oval face, nut-brown hair that grew in a
"widow's peak" on her forehead, and the prettiest dark blue eyes in the
world. Her figure drooped slightly in the shoulders, and was, as Mary
Byrd pointed out in her dashing way, "without the faintest pretence to
style." But if Margaret lacked "style," she possessed an unconscious
grace which seemed to Stephen far more attractive. It was delightful to
watch the flowing lines of her clothes, as if, he used to imagine in a
fanciful strain, she were poured out of some slender porcelain vase. Her
dress to-night, of delicate blue crepe, began slightly below the throat
and reached almost to her ankles. It was a fashion which he had always
admired; but he realized that it gave Margaret, who was only twenty-two,
a quaint air of maturity.

"I am so sorry I am late," he said, "but I had to go back to the office
for a paper I'd forgotten." It was the truth as far